


A letter which I composed

by setmeonfireplease



Series: The Brilliant Comet [1]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: College AU, Dolokhov and Anatole's relationship isn't that healthy, and pain, and that's what I'm good at writing, because I love angst, cause I'm cliche, idk - Freeform, just saying, no one is white or straight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setmeonfireplease/pseuds/setmeonfireplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dolokhov was not concerned. Why should he be? Why should he concern himself with a young, silly girl who was just as meaningless as all the other young, silly girls that Anatole amused himself with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A letter which I composed

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Dina for betta-ing my fic! You should go read her fics at horsegemcipher and follow her on tumblr at garnetcomets!

Dolokhov was not concerned. Why should he be? Why should he concern himself with a young, silly girl who was just as meaningless as all the other young, silly girls that Anatole amused himself with?

Dolokhov was concerned. He knew he should be, should allow himself to be. He knew that she was not just another young silly girl. If she was meaningless, Anatole wouldn’t be spending days trying to woo her; wouldn’t spend hours writing love letters for her (love letters that weren’t even _good_ ).

But being concerned was a waste of time, a fruitless hobby that would bring nothing but unhappiness. Anatole loved him, loved no one but him. Anatole had promised that he did when they made the deal. They could sleep with whoever they wanted as long as they were loyal to nobody but each other (never mind that Dolokhov never slept with anybody else. That was beside the point, really). Anatole swore that he was only truly loyal to Dolokhov, and Anatole would never betray him.

“Dolokhov!” Anatole cried out in surprise when he ( _finally_ ) noticed him. He had been standing in the doorway, watching the other man write. He swiftly replaced his frown with a smug smirk, and prayed that Anatole took no notice. He didn’t (of course he didn’t).

“Hello, love,” He said as he moved towards the desk that Anatole sat at. He pressed a soft and long kiss onto the top of Anatole’s curl covered head and tried his best to keep his eyes from wandering to the papers strewn across the wooden desk (he failed, of course). He couldn’t stop himself from scoffing when he read a single line, but quickly bit his lip. He shouldn’t involve himself in his boyfriend’s affairs like this.

“What is it?” Anatole questioned. Dolokhov shook his head.

“It’s nothing. How were your classes? Did Hélène get into an argument with Marya again?” Dolokhov asked, trying to change the subject. He walked away and over to the bed. He sat down and began to take off his shoes. He tried to ignore it when Anatole got up and sat beside him.

“No, what is it? You know I don’t like it when you keep things from me,” Anatole said, and Dolokhov can barely stop himself from scoffing a second time. Their whole relationship depended on Dolokhov keeping his feelings from Anatole. How Anatole could not realize this by now was beyond him.

“It is nothing,” Dolokhov said as he pulled off his left shoe with a bit more force than necessary. Anatole arched an eyebrow at him.

“Fedya . . .” Anatole didn’t bother to finish the sentence, didn’t bother to try and beg further for a real answer. He knew he wouldn’t have to. He knew that Dolokhov turned into absolute putty in his hands when he used that name. Anatole was the only one allowed to call him that.

To his friends he was Dolokhov.

To his family he was Fyodor.

But to Anatole he was _Fedya_.

“I . . . read a bit of your love letter,” Dolokhov started with a sigh. He really didn’t want to talk about this. “It was . . .”

“Good?” Anatole supplied hopefully.

“You’ve done better.” He hadn’t, but Dolokhov didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Anatole was under the impression that he was a master love letter writer; had thought so ever since he had written one for Dolokhov and saw how much he loved it (really, it was just the fact that he had written a love letter at all that had swept Dolokhov off his feet. The letter itself left many things to be desired).

“Oh . . .” Anatole said, seeming surprised and disappointed. Dolokhov hated how happy that momentarily made him feel.

“I’ve been working on it for hours. I want it to be perfect. This girl, Natalie, she’s stunning. God Dolokhov, you should see her,” Anatole continued. Dolokhov had no intention of ever meeting this Natalie girl, and prayed he that he never had the unfortunate luck of ever having to set his eyes on her. He hated her. He hated her more than he hated all the other girls Anatole played with, though he wasn’t quite sure why (he knew exactly why).

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Dolokhov said shortly, and stood up again. He walked out their bedroom and went into their kitchen.

“I’m not sure what to do, however. I try and I try but I cannot get it right.” Anatole continued as he followed Dolokhov out the room.

“That’s really a shame,” Dolokhov said. He did not want to continue talking about this.

He began to dig through their fridge and pulled out a bottle of red wine. He then went into the cupboard and pulled out an expensive crystal wine glass that his great grandmother had given to him before she had passed when he was young (even as a child, he loved his wine). As he did this, it was quiet. Dolokhov had just begun to hope that Anatole had dropped the subject when he began to speak again.

“I wish I could write like you. You can be _so_ romantic, Fedya.” Anatole made his way over to Dolokhov and wrapped his arms around his small waist. Anatole wasn’t the most muscular man, but he definitely carried more muscle than Dolokhov’s thin body ever would. He towered over him (Dolokhov’s head hardly reached Anatole’s shoulder). Dolokhov was small in every sense of the word, and yet out of the two, he was the fierce one (he could blame it on his scars. He had scars from knife fights and regular fights and the ones on his chest from when he got his breasts cut off. Maybe they were what made him seem so fierce. Well, that and the gun).

“Perhaps with practice, you’ll improve,” Dolokhov shrugged, and tried to slip out of Anatole’s arms. Anatole did not let him. Instead, he held him tighter and pressed several kisses to Dolokhov’s neck. Dolokhov hated the way he tilted his head to give him more access. He knew where this was going. He knew what Anatole was doing.

“Perhaps – Fedya – Maybe – You – Could – Possibly – Help – Me – With – The – Letter?” With every word came another kiss, and the question was punctuated with a sharp bite.

Dolokhov groaned in equal parts pain and pleasure.

“ _Okay_.” He regretted it the moment he said it. He could feel Anatole smirk against his neck and deepen the bite. He stopped after a few seconds, only to twirl Dolokhov around and kiss him deeply on the mouth. His arms were still wrapped tightly around his waist, and Dolokhov was now grateful for that. If it weren’t for those strong, muscular arms, he didn’t think he’d manage to keep standing (he both loved and hated the effect that Anatole had on him in equal parts, and was completely grateful that Anatole didn’t have a clue as to just how much control he had over him).

When Anatole pulled away, he smiled smugly down at Dolokhov.

“You are a Godsend, _Fedya_ ,” He said lowly, putting emphasis on _Fedya_ and causing Dolokhov’s knees to buckle. His arms tightened even more, and he held him even closer (Dolokhov wasn’t sure how Anatole managed such a feat, but he did). He pressed another kiss to his mouth. This one was short however, and he quickly took his leave back into the bedroom.

Dolokhov released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The spot on his neck that Anatole had bitten still stung, and he knew it would leave a mark (he knew that was what Anatole wanted. To leave a mark on him).

Dolokhov turned back to the counter and poured himself the glass of wine. He took a large swig of it and tried not grimace when the crimson liquid hit his tongue. It was bitter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment and have a wonderful day!


End file.
